


Though I Walk Through The Valley

by YouAreMySonnshine



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Development, Comedy, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMySonnshine/pseuds/YouAreMySonnshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A close brush with death shakes normally unflappable Ray to the core, and it's up to ISIS to get him back on his feet. (Rated for future content, rating will be adjusted as needed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first work of fan fiction in a long, long time. I haven't done anything but original fiction in years. Hopefully, I'm not too rusty at it, and I do this thing justice, because this idea was way too good yo

'There's a reason you don't get cellphone reception in parking garages...' Ray thought sluggishly, squinting through the haze at the drab gray concrete beneath his feet. He thought he had heard the scuff of footsteps, but that had to have been more than a minute and a half ago, and nothing had happened. Probably his imagination trying to get his hopes up, but he was long since past that.  
Three... Four? Four days? Three or four, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was it had been more than two, and definitely less than five. His head was pounding, the room was mostly dark, and all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing. He had no inclination of day or night, just a rough estimate of how much time had passed every time someone came to question him.  
However long it had been, ISIS was taking their sweet ass time.  
'Oh, honey, did you expect any less?' He asked himself snidely, still staring blankly at the floor.  
'Wouldn't be surprised if the bitter old bat didn't send anyone after you, Gillette. You're not Archer.'  
Still, there was that small optimistic part of him that prayed against fact and logic that at least Lana would have argued in his favor, and won out to find and extract him to safety. Unfortunately, the pessimistic, nasty voice that was so sure he was going to die was bigger than the hopeful one. It was also a bully of epic proportions.  
'This is the mother of all irony.' Ray mused silently, shifting to examine the bindings on his legs. Whomever had him certainly knew him on a more in-depth level than simply the knowledge that he was an ISIS field agent. His legs were bound thoroughly, and tight, though he was sure that if he applied enough outward force, he could have snapped the restraints in very little time. However, to keep him from doing so, he had been wired to a significant amount of plastic explosives, rendering the fact that he was nearly indestructible metal from the waist down completely useless. A little excessive, he thought.  
The ironic part was that, had his hands not been bound so painfully tightly behind his back, he could have eased his way out of the wrist restraints and diffused the explosives himself. No such luck; he had already tried. Several times. He had even gone so far as to rub against the ropes until he felt the slow, warm trickle of his own blood wetting his bindings, and dripping through his fingers, in hopes that it would act as a lubricant to loosen the knots. Now all he had were sore wrists, and dried blood on his hands.  
That muffled scuffing sound came again, approximately two minutes later, and Ray raised his head. He was about to write it off as another figment of his imagination, until it was accompanied by several muted thudding noises, and what he could have sworn was muted shouting.  
'Boy howdy, someone's pissed off.' He thought idly, shifting gingerly and ignoring the protesting of his muscles, aching and screaming in agony at being held in unnatural positions for so long. The commotion outside his concrete cell continued long enough to pique a small ember of curiosity before it suddenly stopped again, as abruptly as it had started. Confusion started to set in to his addled mind, and then the muffled thudding began once again, this time closer. Or, he assumed it was closer, because it was louder.  
'Jesus, Mary and Joseph.' he thought, squinting through the gloom and darkness.  
'This is it. They decided I'm not gonna talk, and they're gonna kill me.'  
As he conversed with himself, the ruckus got progressively louder, and the sound of someone shouting orders, then the door caving inward kept him from adding to his preceding thought. A wordless cry escaped him, the act re-splitting his still bruised lower lip, and the sting of pain that jolted through his skull, in combination with the light that completely assaulted his sensitive sight ripped forth a loud, coarse swear from him. Instinctively, he winced away from the source of the light, trying to concentrate on pinning the source of the cacophonous tornado of loud and rather unwelcome chaos that had just invited itself into his previously quiet holding cell. Gunfire erupted from just outside the hole where the door had been, though almost immediately, Ray realized that it wasn't directed his way.  
Suppressing fire.  
“Great- good, now let's get the hell out of here- Oh. Oh, that's perfect. I'm not going in there. They rigged him with explosives, Lana!”  
Sure enough, there was Archer. There was a pause in the conversation (but not the covering fire) as, he assumed, Lana looked back to assess his situation.  
“Ray, honey, can you diffuse that?” she called, pausing to reload her clip. A sound that was supposed to be a 'Yes.' arose in his throat, but didn't quite make it. Instead, he uttered a general, affirmative grunt.  
“Problem solved, Archer. I'm sure if you untie his hands, he'll be happy to take care of it himself! Now get over there, I'm not made of ammo!”  
“Jesus! Fine!”  
Ray felt Archer drop beside him, then the blissfully cold kiss of steel as he situated the blade of a knife between his wrists to cut away the bindings.  
“You owe me for this, Gillette.” he stated in a disgruntled tone as the rope frayed, then snapped. Again, Ray meant to reply, but his answer caught in his throat. In its place, a hollow sound echoed, followed by several seconds of silence, and then another, until the sound of his laughter echoing off the concrete had drowned out the sound of gunfire.


	2. Timber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before Ray's abduction. Things get quiet at Isis, and a challenge arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually wrote this one first, because technically it starts here, and the first chapter takes place in like, the middle of everything. I hope that's not too confusing.

Whomever had been the one to complain about things being boring lately certainly must have been right. Not only was it once-in-a-blue-moon rare for more than perhaps three members of ISIS to be seen with each other- especially out of their exclusive 'cliques' as Ray called them, it was still less likely to actually find them having fun.  
The logical conclusion would have been that yes, things were desperately boring. Not only was essentially no one missing, the atmosphere was, for once, light and cheerful. It may have helped that the bar was alive with music and chatter, or that no one in the group was less than three drinks in. Wit and snark flew across the booth faster than the bat of an eyelash, though the teasing lacked its usual malicious edge. Archer, even (As hard as it may be to believe), had dropped the one-upping hostility, if only for the next few hours, and even Cheryl and Ray were playing nice with one another. The only problem, it seemed, was that Pam couldn't convince anyone to try line dancing with her. Cheryl flat out refused. A chorus of hooting and incredulous laughing had arisen at her suggestion that Lana join her, and Cyril had two left feet. Archer claimed to be not nearly intoxicated enough, and Krieger gave an ambiguous statement about not knowing how to dance at all, to which Ray had snorted and accused him of being a dirty liar. That was when she had started trying to wheedle him into it.  
“Pleeeeaaaaase?” She asked for probably the tenth time, reaching over to jostle his knee.  
“No!” Ray stated again, already flushing a little in intoxication.  
“First of all, and foremostly, what makes you think I /know/ how to line dance?!”  
“Oh, come ON! Don't all you rednecks know how to line dance and square dance, and all that shit?” She was getting more insistent, and he wasn't exactly being firm. The first one to decide he was going to give in was Lana, though she didn't say anything. It was a lot more fun to watch Pam try to pester him into it.  
“Southern and redneck ain't the same thing, Pam! Randy's a redneck, /I'm/ Southern. There's a difference!”  
“Wait, no, how is your brother a redneck, but you're not?” Archer demanded, his attention recently freed from the unfortunate cocktail waitress that had been assigned to deliver the next round of shots.  
“You're like, the same person, except that you're gay, and he's not!”  
“You know-”  
“Pleeeeeaaaaaaaase?” Pam whined again, interrupting him.  
“I don't know how to line dance!”  
“Now /you're/ lying.” Krieger muttered snidely, both the comment and his slight cry of surprise as Ray stomped on his foot drowned out by Pam's next question.  
“How drunk do I have to get you?” she demanded, sliding both her shot and his across the table to him and trying her best to look convincing.  
“I don't- I'm- I can't-” he sputtered, casting a quick glance around and only getting expectant stares in reply. By that time, he was the only one in denial that this was going to happen.  
“...Oh, dukes.”  
With a slight shake of his head, he tipped back the first shot, choking out something about everyone at the table going to Hell before he tossed the second one back and shoved himself up, shimmying out of the booth with a withering look at Pam.  
“Before I change my mind.” He beckoned, taking a slightly tipsy step back, followed by a chipper, cheering Pam.  
“How much do you wanna bet he already knows how to line dance?” Archer asked as he clapped Cyril firmly on the shoulder, to which Cyril simply replied  
“Ow!”  
“Whatever that bet is, I'll take it.” Krieger replied, almost happily. Rubbing his shoulder, Cyril knit his brows.  
“What makes you so sure?” he asked, addressing Krieger. The German simply affixed Cyril with a steady, unblinking gaze and replied calmly  
“I'm psychic.”, which caused Cyril to look away, now vastly uncomfortable.  
“Because.” Archer interjected, ignoring the adamant stare Krieger was still giving Cyril.  
“How could he not? You heard Pam, all hillbillies know how to do that shit!”  
“First of all, that's kinda racist, don't you think?” Lana interrupted, arms crossed in Ray's defense.  
“It's /Archer./” Cyril replied, at the same time Archer laughed.  
“No! Why would it be?!”  
“Because that's just like assuming any other stereotype! It's like calling Krieger a Nazi!”  
“But he IS a Nazi!”  
“Hitler /clone/! Not Hitler!” Krieger interjected in a defensive manner.  
“...But besides that, he IS right.”  
“Again, how are you so sure of that?” There was a slight edge of suspicion to Cyril's voice, and he flinched visibly as Krieger clapped a hand onto his shoulder and turned him to face the other direction, putting Ray and Pam directly in his line of sight. Ray was indeed, it seemed, trying to instruct Pam on how to line dance.  
“...Oh.” Was all Cyril could manage, once again drowned out by Archer's gleeful cackling.  
“Lana, I told you!” he crowed, clapping his hands in delight.  
“Oh my god! Someone please take a picture!” Even as he spoke, Archer was reaching for his phone to do just that. Cheryl was already taking video- for blackmail purposes or otherwise.   
“And that's even less tasteful.”  
No one heard Lana over the sound of Archer's gleeful laughing- not that anyone was listening. Krieger was preoccupied with ignoring Archer, Cheryl was laughing with Archer, and Cyril was simultaneously looking extremely uncomfortable and trying not to laugh. Lana herself was not laughing, though she happened to be the only one. Even Ray and Pam were laughing- at the fact that they kept tripping over each other. After about five more minutes, Pam was steering him back toward the booth.  
“Ray.” Archer interjected, as the duo rejoined them, Ray finding his seat with a little help from Pam.  
“Ray, will you please explain to Lana that line-dancing is a Southern requirement?”   
Ray snorted over the noise, tossing his mussed hair out of his face.  
“I don't know what you're talking about, I was taught how to line dance. Ain't like it's Redneck 101, or anything.”  
“What are you talking about, it so is!”  
At that, Ray fixed Archer with a level stare, or as best as he could do in the state he was in.  
“Do you know how to ballroom dance?” he asked, his brow arched in a challenge. Archer scoffed at him in reply.  
“No. Because I wouldn't be caught dead ballroom dancing. Why do you-”  
“Well, you know, I just assumed that was Straight White Mama's Boy 101. But that's fine, honey, I'm pretty sure they have Mommy and Me dance classes down at the Y.”  
Once again, the table erupted with a chorus of sounds. Lana was the one laughing now, with Pam laughing along. Krieger looked completely impressed with Ray, and Cyril had snorted, and was once again trying to keep from laughing, and Cheryl was still recording, and making disparaging noises at Archer.  
“Well, you would know! Because you're one of the Village People!” he snapped, doing a rather poor job of masking his irritation. Ray was doubled over, practically choking on laughter.  
“I'm sorry...” he wheezed, his shoulders shaking with the effort that it took to laugh and breathe at the same time.  
“I can't hear you over that raging Oedipus complex!”  
Another round of competitive “Ooooh”ing and taunting hoots rose, drowning out Archer's reply, which was something about shooting Ray again. The closing part of his reply was something about being more of a man, which Ray caught.  
“You think so, huh?” he demanded, emboldened both by alcohol, and the fact that for once, he had successfully managed to not only deflect, but counter Archer's jabs at him.  
“You wanna play me a game of pool for your manhood, Duchess?” the last word he uttered significantly quieter, though he tossed it at Archer like a live grenade. Both men stood at the same time, staring one another down. Around them, the other members of ISIS were already calling out bets, with Pam keeping track.  
“I'll play you, and I'll win.” Archer tossed back, jabbing his index finger at Ray.  
“Because not only am I more of a man, I'm a better agent, and better at pool!”  
“You cheat at pool...” Cyril interrupted, frowning as the group made their way across the bar.  
“Shut up, Cyril. I do not!”  
“Oooh, yes he does.” Lana muttered, at the same time Ray turned, leveling a pool cue at him.  
“Oh, yes you do.” he echoed, earning a triumphant 'Ha!' from Lana.  
“And if you cheat this time, I'm gonna tie your shoelaces together and beat you with this pool stick.”  
“Bring it on. Tinkerbell.”


End file.
